The Big Apple
by surgere
Summary: There's this bartender in New York City who can work with knives and a bottle of gin, and he rather likes his privacy, but the mafia just can't seem to leave him alone. Desmond's past, because sticking an assassin in a city with noteworthy criminal history is just ASKING for a story. Desmond-centric
1. Prologue

_Finally met some girls from Illinois. So bubbly. So kind. One day drive to Omaha. Another to Chicago. Then, somewhere, someone said to me…_

_"If you got nothing, you go to New York. That way, if you leave with nothing, people don't ask why. And if you leave with something, you are one lucky son of a gun."_

_So that's where I went. New York City. Into skyscrapers and subways. Into filth and folly. Into the maddening crowds. _

* * *

By the time New York City welcomed Desmond, the American mafia had been confined into only that city, and its Families had been forced to get along in a space very small compared to the entire Northeast they used to dominate. There were five mafia Families in total, and all were powerful in their own right to have survived to the twenty-first century where other Families had gone extinct, but the five of them had come to frustratingly acknowledge the power of the federal government.

Desmond found himself somehow unsurprised when there was speculation that Abstergo Industries had provided its services and technologies to help the government arrest or kill mafia left, right, and centre. The rumours were only given base when mafiosi didn't — or couldn't — hit major Abstergo structures, the security being too tight or — if one would believe it — secret, certain, convincing threats having been sent beforehand. _Maybe_ Abstergo Industries — with fingers in every pie — had some internal corruption or had somewhat corrupted the government; it didn't mean the Brotherhood was correct in that their (fairy-tale of a history's) sworn enemy, the Templars, still existed, right? Desmond at least thought so; he wasn't seeing any Abstergo employees killing Assassins on sight. But of course, he wasn't seeing any Assassins, either.

Enough Italians were around in New York City, so Desmond chose a fitting name: Devon Miceli. He preferred going by Dev. The apartment he got was old, cheap, and didn't ask for many papers or identification, even though Desmond had both, however fake. The deal sounded too good to be true, but the apartment was also in a sketchy area. Desmond didn't have anything worth stealing, so it didn't matter. One time, he would come back to find his lock had been broken, but nothing inside stolen. He would get a better lock, if only to know if an Assassin broke in (just in case), because he could identify a professional break in when he'd see it. No professional burglar would bother breaking in the cheap apartment building for cash or jewellery; it would be like selling themselves short.

Living in New York City may have sounded miserable, if Desmond had not discovered bartending before he arrived. It was an art. Making a drink was a performance. Delivering it demanded elegance. Desmond had seen expert bartenders pour port wine so thin it looked like a thread, break the fall with a spoon, and then allow it to float atop the rest of the drink in a cocktail glass. The drink's surface would blossom into a dazzling red, and the bartender would slide the glass forward with a smile and introduce the cocktail drink, the "American Beauty," named after a flower. Women melted at a good drink and a good bartender. Desmond did, too. The bars in the city promised more ingredients than Desmond could access in past places of employment, and he planned to enjoy bartending in NYC as much as he could.

The bar he tended at, Bad Weather, was a subway's ride away from the apartment, and Desmond loved it, for a while. The staff warmed up to him quickly — all except apparently the boss — and Desmond was able to connect with a few customers. Overall, it was as if he was always there; even bar regulars didn't bat an eye at his presence behind the counter, as if he naturally belonged wherever he was. (_And, in a roomful of people, sixteen years of training would whisper in his ears, 'Hide in plain sight.'_) Old habits were hard to break. Especially of the Assassin kind.

Desmond's boss at Bad Weather observed "Devon Miceli" more than most — this action driven by gut feeling or by logic, not even the boss could understand or explain himself. From what he saw, Devon Miceli drank in all he could of the city and its people without attracting too much attention to himself. Whatever rock from which he came out from under made the city new and flashy to him, and this somewhat stunted exposure to the world occupied Miceli with rushing to learn about it instead of revolutionising it. He was like a sheltered boy discovering the world for the first time.

But.

Beneath his boyish exterior was something trained since birth to be that shadow at the corner of one's eye, the hairs standing on the back of one's neck — the something that stole in the night. That was why Desmond's boss in Bad Weather would put him on busy shifts — he wanted to keep a close eye on him.

That was why Desmond's boss wasn't the only one.

* * *

_Hi. Hello there. You've completed an introduction into my life in New York, and have gotten insight to what others have sensed from me. See, this isn't a journal written by me, though there __**are**__ some of my personal thoughts in it quickly scribbled at the top or bottom of a page, and I apologise for the laughable handwriting. _

_**This**__ is a collaboration of accounts — both mine and others' — of my years away from the Farm. This has been edited so that you can see things from the outside with a glimpse of the within. Everything is here: my greatest regrets, my occasional triumphs, my moments of pain. __**This**__ is my life's story. So please honour it:_

_By reading. _

— _D.M._

* * *

A/N: I've had this idea since January, but after seeing the AC Unity trailer, I got pumped up to refocus on Assassin's Creed!


	2. Chapter 1

_Lights. Action. Bass drum. Mind-numbing. One-hundred twenty-four beats per. Twice the speed of a beating heart. Goodness, they all looked so good. The girls in their skirts, batting eyes, the beads of sweat. _

_Everyone was so beautiful in those flashing lights. _

_But the shine of the city had faded_.

* * *

Desmond blinked away his dizziness from hanging at a club earlier, and his bartending partner, Mary, nudged him to stand up straight. "Hangover from this morning, Dev? I didn't know you drank so early." Desmond waved her away, and she laughed. "I'm not drunk, just dizzy from an hour of seizure-inducing lights. Besides, I can only do fun stuff during the day; the boss gave me the late hours to tend the bar." "He gave _us_ the late hours," Mary corrected, "and the busiest ones, too, so you better gather yourself up and serve the customers their drinks properly."

Desmond watched as Mary moved down the bar to greet a customer. The female bartender was undeniably pretty, but she had a fiancé across the city working morning and night so that they could get married. She wasn't Desmond's type, anyway; Desmond didn't _have_ a type. Growing up among Assassins, coming across too many women willing to wear less and less to go to bed with him — Desmond couldn't look at a girl straight without comparing her to one or the other. Mary was one of the few who didn't fall to either category — instead, she reminded Desmond of the two girls who had driven him around after having found him tired, hungry, and alone walking down a dirt road. The two girls were killed in the crossfire of a gang fight. That was the first experience of death he had.

A customer ordered a Horse's Neck, and Desmond smiled before getting to work. With deft hands, he cut a spring out of a lemon peel and lined it against the inside of a glass. The feel of a knife in his hand always felt comforting in its familiarity, despite William Miles having refused his son access to anything past throwing knives — which were only sharp at the very tip and harmless otherwise — until Desmond could hit any target at any distance demanded of him to William's satisfaction. Needless to say, Desmond never got to learn anything past throwing knives.

Next, Desmond used tongs to put choice ice in the glass, then poured 45 mL of brandy. He filled the glass up with ginger ale and slid the finished drink to the customer before him with a smile. The customer thanked him, and Desmond nodded back as he set about returning the bottles and items he used.

"Bartender! Gimme something sharp."

Desmond looked at Mary's direction, where a bald man in a suit sat down before her after ordering quite loudly, as if he owned the place. "What do you think this time, Dev?" Desmond glanced over his shoulder where a curly-haired Hispanic stood and watched on in interest. Desmond made an amused noise in his throat. "Don't you have tables to wait, Hernandez?" "Come on, Dev — isn't observing customers part of a bartender's job?" "To connect with them," Desmond clarified, "and why don't you ever ask _Mary_ for descriptions?" "'Cause you're the best," Hernandez replied honestly. Desmond huffed, torn between exasperation at Hernandez's daily requests, and pride at his observational abilities being recognised, unlike back at the Farm. Hernandez looked at Desmond expectantly. Desmond looked at Mary's customer.

"He's partly drunk already — see how he hasn't looked at Mary yet despite having ordered already? He's been gazing around and moving a bit tipsy since he walked in. The guy's also right-handed…" Desmond drifted off suddenly. _Rubbed marks on the left hand's thumb and forefinger. The reloading of a gun._ "Dev?" Hernandez's voice broke him out of his thoughts. "The guy's a mafioso," Desmond shared.

Bad Weather, due to its location and its roughness gained from exposure to the mafia, was visited by mafiosi from all five Families, though never at the same time. Desmond's coworkers relied on Bad Weather for jobs, and thus most of them acted as the place's bouncers, so with mafiosi as common customers, the employees of Bad Weather had to be tough in their own right.

Desmond never admitted to anyone that working at a place where everyone could hold his or her own in a scuffle felt a little like home.

So, while it was unusual for a mafioso to come to the bar alone, Desmond and Hernandez weren't alarmed by it. The only detail that made Desmond keep an eye out on the mafioso anyway was because — of Bad Weather's staff — only Mary and Hernandez couldn't defend themselves. They were the more "civilian-like" people of the area, and civilian-like in that they couldn't win at least a scuffle. Violence was sort of a common thing in the area. At least, it looked like it when one worked at a bar.

"Would Sapporo Dry beer be fine?" Mary offered her customer. The bald man looked at her when he realised his bartender was a woman. He examined her in appreciation, and Desmond slowly put down the towel he was using to wipe his knife just in case; the less-than-law-abiding patrons of Bad Weather were generally more forceful than other customers, especially when drunk. Desmond's suspicions were confirmed when the bald man gave a sleazy grin and snaked his hand across the countertop too fast for Desmond's comfort. A knife to the sleeve halted its progress. The bald man glared at Desmond.

"Do ya know who I work for!" he raised his voice with a bit of a slur, before taking out a gun and raising it to Desmond's face. Desmond grabbed it and twisted it to the side where the gun pointed at a harmless direction, and the bald man gave a cry of pain at his finger caught in the trigger guard.

"You can be here for drinks or a place to sit, but not for any of our employees. Is that understood?"

"Gah! Fool! You're gonna break my hand!"

"I said, is that under_stood?_" Desmond twisted the gun back some more, and the crack of a bone popping was heard. The bald man made a small sound in the back of his throat at the sudden pain.

"Yes, yes! For Pete's sake, gimme back my hand, already!"

Desmond loosened his grip and took the gun out of the patron's hand. Hernandez and Mary watched as Desmond pressed a button on the side of the gun for its clip to fall out and cocked the muzzle for a bullet to pop out harmlessly from the barrel. Desmond laid the now emptied gun on the counter behind him, before removing the knife that was pinning the patron's sleeve down.

"If you want your gun back, it will be in Lost and Found."

The bald man grumbled and, giving up on a drink, left the bar. "Hernandez," Desmond called over, and the Hispanic came with a whistle at the mark the knife had left on the counter. Desmond rolled his eyes, aware the boss wouldn't like it. "Mind tossing that in the storage closet?" Hernandez hesitatingly picked up the gun from the grip with two fingers — as he was not used to nor comfortable with handling any form of weaponry — and disappeared around the corner for the Lost and Found box in the storage closet. Mary elbowed Desmond.

"Taking the gun from the mafioso was kind of unnecessary," she said. Desmond gave her a look. "A gun should not be in the hands of someone who will kill for a Sapporo Dry." Mary laughed.

When the bar closed, the manager bartender — a Mr. Hall, but everyone always referred to him as "boss" — examined the place as he always would before locking it up. Hernandez and Mary watched in amusement as the boss traced a certain indent marring the countertop. Hall looked at Desmond.

"Tsk. Again, Miceli? I should be taking the repairs off of your tab!"

"Except that customers have been more agreeable ever since he's come here," Hernandez coughed into his hand, purposefully loud.

Desmond lifted his chin a degree in defence. "I am simply doing what a bartender should."

Hall felt his patience thinning. "A bartender meets the customer's order!"

"He asked for something sharp," Desmond said innocently.

Mary snickered.


	3. Chapter 2

"Dev — your customers at the back are too rowdy."

"I'll take care of it."

The table was truly loud. Despite Bad Weather having served mafiosi before, the ruckus from the table at the back of the bar place was disrupting even compared to past intoxicated, criminal patrons. The customers at the loud table weren't even _drunk_. Desmond approached them with their ordered drinks.

"Excuse me, but may I ask you to lower your voices?"

One of the customers — a man in a leather jacket — looked at Desmond as the runaway Assassin set down the tray of drinks on the table. The customers each had an arm slung around a girl with teary eyes or trembling lips. The girls couldn't have been older than fifteen.

"You just serve the drinks, bartender. Do that and go away."

There was no proof of child slave trade in New York that the police could get their hands on, but Desmond had heard whispers about it during his time in New York City. This was the first time he had ever encountered anything related to it, and his stomach twisted in disgust. The men at the table obviously had certain plans for the night after drinking their beer, and the girls were all too aware of it. Hall caught Desmond's eye, and the old man was firmly glaring at Desmond. _We are devoted to our customers. Nothing. Else._ The old man always knew when Desmond wanted to cause some trouble.

The man in a leather jacket slapped the side of Desmond's neck. "Hey! Are you listening to me? Serve the drinks already!"

The neck. Was the most vulnerable part of the body. Every Assassin learned this; every Templar of the past had learned to fear this. Even if Desmond didn't believe (much) in the fairy tales his parents and teachers fed him when he was back at the Farm, he agreed that one did not simply. Touch. The. Neck.

Instincts ingrained in him rising and (barely) being forced down, Desmond slowly turned to look at the offender.

"What are you looking at, stupid? Forget this — _I'll_ distribute the drinks!"

The leather jacket man reached for the glasses on the tray, and Desmond's hand snapped out and caught the customer's wrist with the speed and force of lightning. The patrons at the table jumped, and the leather jacket man — obviously in pain at the tight grip — tried pulling his hand out of Desmond's hold, to no avail. The man, despite being under Desmond's power, was swearing profanities at the ex-Assassin and promising pain in return for what Desmond was doing.

Blood was pumping in Desmond's ears, past training sessions whispering for him to _protect his neck, pull the attacker down, get the advantage_— In the corner of his eye, Desmond saw Hall step forward with intent. Suddenly, like a flip was switched, Desmond let go of the customer's wrist and backed off a step. The leather jacket man nursed his wrist and glared at Desmond.

"Yeah, that's right — back off if you know what's good for you! Coward."

Desmond's fingers itched for a knife. No, he wasn't an Assassin anymore. But he sure had the same way of expressing oneself when having lost one's patience.

"Bartending is a mindless job where you just serve drinks. You bartenders are just racking in the cash like the unskilled, labour-working, money thieves you ar–" _Pwffsh!_

Hall and a few other employees of Bad Weather had taken a step forward in alarm when they saw Desmond move. It was a reflex, and even if they didn't understand it, it was the reflex of bystanders witnessing someone pulling out a weapon to draw blood.

The leather jacket man stood up, sputtering at the full glass of beer that had been thrown at his face. Desmond set the glass down gracefully, as if he hadn't just dumped beer on a customer; he exhaled slowly, surprised but relieved he had chosen a more civilian expression of impatience than an Assassin one. The other men at the table stood up, but when they met Desmond's eyes and realised the rest of the bar had eyes on them, too, they faltered and looked away. Swear words started pouring from the leather jacket man like a river, but his company nudged him to leave the bar with them, whispering calming words and doing their best to avoid looking directly at Desmond.

If the group ever got in a fight, it would be five on one, but the leather jacket man and his company had not noticed it, and Hall held his breath for no fists to start flying, or there would be many repairs, apologies to other customers, and medical bills for whatever injuries Miceli would get. As skilled as the boy was with cutting fruit and winning a small tussle with customers, slave traders had combat ability comparable to middle-class mafiosi.

When the slave traders had finally left the bar and the leather jacket man's swearing had faded away, the room seemed to breathe easier. Desmond began wiping the table and floor of beer, but Hall stopped him and pulled him aside, signalling for Hernandez to clean it up instead. Another waiter started helping the girls left behind by the slave traders out of their chairs and to a corner where a taxi could be hailed to deliver them to the police station. In another corner where the customers wouldn't be bothered by the conversation, Hall firmly spoke to Desmond and jabbed a finger at the thrown beer.

"I don't want to see that conduct again, Miceli."

Desmond snapped his gaze from the messy table to the boss in disbelief. "He–!" The neck! But a civilian wouldn't understand. Desmond chose an alternate excuse. "Did you hear what he said!?"

"Yes."

"Then you should know how I feel! I don't take criticism from people I don't respect."

"You're going to meet a lot of customers you don't respect. But they are _customers_. They come _first_."

"But–!"

"**Miceli!** I might have to _fire_ you if I see you do anything like that again!" Hall whispered furiously.

Desmond glared defiantly at him, an indignant fire burning in his eyes. It was truly terrifying, and Hall mentally told himself he'd count to ten before he'd accept Desmond's rebellious character – and cave in to the frightening glare – and then fire the young man. Desmond gave in first, much to Hall's surprise; the brunette broke eye contact and gave an almost imperceptible nod. Hall was reminded of a time of scolding bruised, brash teenagers who meant well but got in too many fights. When Desmond had broken eye contact, though, Hall had felt an unseen, gravity-like force release him. One day, he would realise it was a form of natural killing intent, unintentionally emitted by Desmond who most likely had not noticed what he was doing at all.

Mary patted Desmond on the shoulder in consolation as he returned to his place behind the counter. A young man in a suit and wild, brown hair mildly tamed by being combed to the side slid onto a stool before Desmond. "I just passed some slave traders and walked in to discover you've been lectured. What's up, Dev?" "Lippi," Desmond greeted as he poured ginger ale and gin in a glass. "Didn't you notice the one drenched with beer?" Lippi chuckled in realisation. "You didn't," he admonished. Desmond shrugged. "I still got lectured for it. Would _you_ have thrown beer at a slave trader if you had the chance and a good reason?"

Lippi lit a cigarette and took a puff. "What kind of reason?" he asked. "Deeply insulting your occupation," Desmond responded, "but I realise how silly that sounds after I've said it." Lippi laughed. The suited man was a mafioso who was at least middle-class — so far as Desmond could see — but spent his free time at Bad Weather when Desmond was on shift. The two had become friends of a sort; it was rare to find someone of similar age and tolerance to violence and not a member of a different Family, or a member of a Family at all. Lippi thought he and Desmond were the same age. Desmond never bothered correcting him. The ex-Assassin didn't know if it was because he missed the (sort of) companionship he had with his batch mates back at the Farm, or because he didn't want the attention he'd most likely get if people discovered he was younger than he claimed. He already had a suspicion that the boss — Hall — was observing him more than most.

"Mafia doesn't deal with slave trade," Lippi reminded. "It's up there with drug dealing; it messes with the mind, makes correctly perceiving things and people harder the longer you're in the business, and," here, he grinned, "it's just a matter of time until the Family boss finds out. Only trouble follows after that." Desmond added a splash of grenadine to the drink and stirred it, before garnishing it with a maraschino cherry and sliding it to Lippi, who snubbed out his cigarette and smiled wider. "Thanks, Dev! That's why you're the best." Lippi took a sip of it. "This is my favourite cocktail, but I never remember the name of it!" Desmond rolled his eyes at the obvious attempt.

"It's a Shirley Templar."

When Bad Weather was closed and Hall finished his routine of examining the bar, Hall dismissed everyone except Desmond. Nervous eyes flitted to said brunette, but everyone did as they were told, leaving Desmond and the boss alone in the bar. Desmond followed Hall to the cabinets, storage room, the front door, and the back door as the old man locked each of them. Hall spoke as he did so, and their conversation would finish out the back door in the alley outside the bar.

"I don't want to leave you a bad impression of serving here at Bad Weather," Hall began. Desmond wanted to snort at that, but he respected Hall as the manager bartender and most senior of all of Bad Weather's employees. It was said that the old man had been tending the bar since before any of them had been born. It also meant that the old man had seen his fair share of crime appropriate to the mafia-infested city.

"None of us like child slavery," Hall continued, "but picking a fight with slave traders only invites difficulty. What if they decided to destroy the bar in revenge? People rely on Bad Weather for jobs." Desmond got the impulse to defend himself somehow. "I would have won a fight with those guys," he claimed.

Desmond was honestly uncertain. He was most familiar with how Assassins moved, but not criminals like slave traders or mafiosi. The only real fighting experience he had was picked up from the streets in the years he had left the Farm; his experience of combat at the Farm was training sessions and sparring, though he never won against his dad. On the run, when Assassins sent to return Desmond to the Brotherhood finally chose to use force, Desmond was able to win the tussle or run away and disappear to create another identity and move on, but the rank of Assassins sent to him had started out low, before steadily going higher. In the beginning, it was Assassin initiates, then apprentices, then disciples, then warriors, then veterans…. Finally, when a full-fledged Assassin was sent, the male Assassin had been embarrassed when Desmond — theoretically of much lower rank than him — had given him the slip in the middle of combat. Desmond encountered that Assassin a few more times since then; the Assassin seemed determined to regain his honour after (repeatedly!) being showed up by someone not even an Assassin.

"Five on one, Miceli?" Hall's response brought Desmond out of his thoughts. "And even if you did, what are five slave traders in a global network of them? Picking a fight with a table of them isn't going to eradicate slave trade from the world, or even New York." Desmond had to agree with the boss; he had acted a little too quickly on his feelings in the present when, in retrospect, he was risking the safety of Bad Weather, its customers, and its employees. Desmond was ready to admit to his wrongs, when Hall's next words stunned him.

"Miceli, I don't know what kind of a father you've had, but I have raised two sons before they were taken away from me in the crossfire of a mafia street fight. Listen to me when I say this: have your morals, but choose your battles."

Hall patted Desmond's shoulder before leaving the ex-Assassin standing in the alley outside Bad Weather's back door, staring after the old man until he disappeared around the corner. Desmond would have stood there in numbness longer if his trained gut hadn't told him to get a move on and not stay in one place for too long. As he walked home to his apartment, he mentally tossed around the word "father," unsure of what to make of it. The way the boss had said it, a father seemed to be someone who taught life lessons like thinking about others before deciding to cause trouble with jerks, and while William Miles certainly ingrained what he could about situational assessment and combat strategy in Desmond since he could climb trees, it only ever seemed related to survival or mission success rates. What morals Desmond learned were mostly related to Templars and their actions and influence on people; any morals related to the people themselves were taught by Mrs. Miles.

_Have your morals, but choose your battles._ That sounded nothing like _Nothing is true, everything is permitted._

It took three hours before Desmond could fall asleep.

* * *

_"Hey! What's that drink you invented? I had it last time."_

_Desmond looked over his shoulder from where he was returning bottles to spot the customer calling out to him. Casual but nice suit, right-handed, at least one hidden gun: it was the mafioso from earlier. _

_"The Shirley Templar?"_

_Gin had a dry taste that was usually combined with sweeter ingredients like tonic water or vermouth, so it had made sense to put it in the sweet drink, the Shirley Temple. When Desmond did this for the first time, though, he had deeper thoughts running through his head. Gin was his first experience of alcohol when he had accidentally drunken it straight. The Shirley Temple was his first experience of a purposefully flavoured drink, and he had marvelled how such a pure, nonalcoholic beverage could be served in the same place as alcoholic cocktails were. It was with a farewell to the isolated life he knew — the Shirley Temple — and the embrace of the new world — the gin — that the Shirley Templar, half new world and half old, was born. _

_"Shirley Templar?" the customer echoed. "What's in it?"_

_Desmond finished putting away the bottles and faced the mafia customer properly with a smile, but no teeth. For some reason, pursuing freedom from the Farm only made Desmond think about his former home. _

_"The usual, I just add some gin." _

_When the mafioso paused, Desmond realised the young man had seen through the smile. Desmond watched as the mafioso slapped the countertop in a friendly manner. _

_"Right on. Four of those!"_

_That night, Desmond shared two glasses with someone who understood — even if it was only a little — the loneliness one could feel when surrounded by a city's worth of people. _


	4. Chapter 3

At the Farm, everyone was automatically awake before the sun rose, but time on the road and living in the streets and cities caused Desmond to wake up only at sunrise. The Farm's warm up — a list of push ups, sit ups, and lunges, among other things — became a morning ritual before breakfast, because he never knew when an Assassin would pop up to come (try) dragging him back to the Brotherhood.

During the day, Desmond would spend his hours ensuring that his cover identity was still solid, that no Assassins were on his trail, and, when he felt up to it, hanging at clubs or other bars; he tried having variety to avoid patterns in his daily schedule. Sometimes, visiting the clubs and bars was for recreational purposes. Other times, it was to keep updated to the movements and activities of the city, just in case.

When time for work came, Desmond was surprised to notice that Hernandez, Hall, and most of the other employees weren't around. Mary explained that mafiosi of the Ré Family had ordered for an employee from Bad Weather to serve them in a small, one-room bar they owned for that day and the next; they were comfortable with Bad Weather's staff due to its familiarity with serving a variety of customers, but they only wanted one employee for privacy purposes.

Due to everyone else already working double shifts, and to Desmond's behaviour to the slave traders the night before, the boss had assigned Hernandez to wait a table for the mafiosi, alone. It was risky for Hernandez's safety, but one of the mafiosi, a Benny, was said to tip in twenties, and Hernandez had insisted he would wait for them. Something had happened during Hernandez's solo task, however, and now Hernandez was at the back of the bar. Mary said she thought she saw the boss go back there with a first aid kit.

When Desmond walked in, a few employees were helping Hernandez sit with his leg raised a little off the ground as the boss tended to an obviously profusely bleeding foot. Desmond couldn't tell if it was a knife wound since it was mostly bandaged up, but he knew it must have felt extremely painful.

"What happened?" he asked. Hernandez was sweating from the pain; poor guy, who had probably never been caught in a bad fight before, was suffering from a (stab?) wound. "Benny got annoyed when I misheard his snack order," the Hispanic explained. "He fired shots at my feet to amuse himself." Even worse — a _bullet_ wound. "And you didn't bother running?" Desmond asked in disbelief. "I jumped around, but the shots were at the ground — I thought he wasn't going to get me!" Hernandez wildly gestured, but he winced and immediately stopped.

The Hispanic must have had fallen and hit an edge or blunt object after he was shot in the foot, because the other employees were checking Hernandez's side and head with the delicacy and familiarity of having done so and found bruises. Hernandez would have great difficulty working properly with the injuries he sustained from a trigger-happy maniac, and Hernandez, like most of Bad Weather's workers, relied on attendance at work to earn enough money to get by. Desmond felt a sense of unfairness at the situation swell up in his throat. "I'm going with you the next time," Desmond stated with conviction.

Hernandez wasn't the only one whose eyes swivelled to Desmond in shock. "No, Dev — they were mafia! Ré Family, to boot!" one of the employees cautioned. The Ré Family was the strongest mafia Family of the five that were occupied in New York City. Desmond could care less. "I'm going," he insisted. Discouragements rose from the employees and Hernandez, and Desmond was ready to declare that he was going to go anyway, when a voice of authority cut them off.

"Miceli is going with you."

Everyone in the room looked at Hall in shock. The old man was finishing up with bandaging Hernandez's foot. "Thanks, boss," Desmond said as he helped the old man up. "This isn't for revenge or back-up, Miceli," the old man snapped at Desmond, startling him. "If I could have my way, _neither_ of you would go, but you and Hernandez are the only ones free for the slot, and the mafiosi are going to have to accept two employees instead of one after shooting an employee of mine. Now, I don't want you causing _any_ trouble, you got that?"

"But—"

"Miceli!"

Desmond frowned, but understood. "Fine."

* * *

Fingers immaculately guided a comb through wild brown hair to neatly fix them to the side, but a few stubborn strands leaned towards hanging over the face. The almost offensive slam of a drink on the bar counter shook a few strands to do just that. Lippi blew at them in exasperation and looked up to see a taut expression on his friend's face, whose eyes were intensely looking off somewhere.

"Rough day already?"

Devon's gaze refocused, and he looked at Lippi. "You better not be from the Ré Family." Lippi blinked. That wasn't what he had expected. Devon gestured something in the air before sighing, his arm flopping uselessly to his side as the other propped his head up on the counter he bent over. Lippi amusedly noted how his friend resembled a teenager stretched over a desk, hating the world, or at least homework.

Lippi sipped his Shirley Templar to occupy his lips from laughing, when Devon's clear brown eyes swivelled to pin him with a knowing look. Lippi wondered how, sometimes, his friend seemed to be able to see through souls milliseconds before he saw them. When Devon snorted, Lippi knew his friend was miffed at his humour, and Lippi felt himself relax. The potential for a chilling, unreadable stare lied in the few seconds Devon had looked at Lippi, and not for the first time, Lippi wondered who his friend was before New York knew him as a bartender.

"No, I'm not from the Ré Family. Ease up, Dev~" Lippi assured, smiling as he raised his glass to his lips again. He pushed back loose strands of hair with his comb when they fell out of place, and Devon automatically took in every micro movement with his hawk-like eyes like he always did, not a trace of his thoughts reflecting on his face except for the irritation at the Ré Family he had come to the bar with. Lippi knew, from his own time of secretly studying his friend, that Devon observed everyone he saw with the same, watchful gaze whose intensity was only dulled by Devon's disinterest in putting effort to do a thorough job. Such an instinct was learned; every good mafia don pushed his subordinates into trying situations to build it into them, and Lippi himself was forced to recognise the value of observation in his younger years.

Devon's degree of laziness and disinterest in power or crime proved him to be no threat so far as Lippi could see, but someone else had obviously had the integrity and seriousness to invest one's own, _personal_ time in Devon. Looking at Devon slumped on the counter like a child, Lippi wondered how his friend had not seen any of it — not the dangers his caretaker was expecting to put Devon in, not the powerful man the caretaker foresaw in Devon's future under such tutelage — and didn't feel threatened from having run from such an individual. Lippi knew that someone who invested _that much_ in a person would track down and erase a runaway investment that betrayed its master — the underground world was cold and cruel like that. What Lippi _didn't_ know was that Desmond was aware that his "caretaker" was a man of integrity and seriousness, and that a certain twenty-one Brothers and one Assassin were proof that William Miles wanted his son back. Twenty-two mission failures were proof that Desmond didn't _want_ to come back.

Devon got up from the counter to prepare and serve a drink for another customer, and he and Lippi shared small, comfortable talk as the latter absentmindedly stirred his glass, the clinking of ice attributing to the cozy white noise of a bar. Lippi amusedly noticed that as they spoke, Devon's irritation began evaporating, the bartender's familiar teen-like, approachable character easing back in. Devon readied another Shirley Templar when Lippi's was almost gone, and Lippi cooed at him as the mafioso combed back rebel loose strands.

"You're my little baby, Dev. I ask you to talk when I see you're feeling down, and all I ask in return is a Shirley Templar. Look at how he relaxes after I talk to him nice! That's my Dev, my little Baby." Devon rolled his eyes and ruffled Lippi's hair, earning him a squawk of protest. The two laughed. Lippi watched Devon give a toothy smile, and — as always — Lippi couldn't help smiling back. Devon was a long ways away from the nameless, lonely bartender Lippi had met three months ago. After cracking through the mysterious brunette's exterior with the classic Lippi charm, the mafioso discovered that Devon had an effect of his own that Lippi couldn't resist at times.

In the back of his mind, he admired how easily Devon could break him with the almost desperate way Lippi had emotionally attached himself to the mysterious bartender, whose small habits were potentially deadly and whose smile could make Lippi jump off a cliff for him. If Devon had finished whatever childhood someone set up for him, Devon with his charisma could have easily destroyed Lippi and his world, and make him tear down his Family to its foundations with glee, because it was for Devon. There was a perfect, not-mafia-politically-tied friend Lippi had always craved for and had found in Devon, and Lippi didn't feel like he'd ever let go. He wasn't sure if he should have felt scared at that. After all, he had a responsibility to his Family, and if anyone discovered that Devon — his precious Baby — was his soft spot, the Family _could_ be torn to its foundations. Precious Baby didn't even know it.

_He's going to be the death of me._

And Lippi thought this with a fond smile.

* * *

_**They're looking for us,**__ my dad used to say, __**and they will not stop until every one of us is dead.**_

_What is this war about? What are we fighting for? They never told me. Just enough. They kept things shrouded; an air of secrecy. For my own good, they said. What scared me was the training. Sweat, tears, bloody lip every once in a while. _

_**Focus, Desmond! Focus! **__How far were they going to push me? __**Strength, speed, agility. No excuses. **_

_I couldn't stand it! What was the point? For years and years I thought some major catastrophe was on the horizon. _

_**One day you'll understand. You'll see. All this unease will be worth something. I promise. **_

_If they'd been more open with me. If they'd shown me things, taken me places. Maybe it would have made more sense…. _


	5. Chapter 4

_Rising from below like the living dead, into the sun, the light shocking my eyes. Walking those ten minutes between the subway and the bar always felt so good. _

_But that feeling never lasted. Some days the city is a vampire. It steals all your best moments. They come and go in seconds, and fade away. You end up remembering only the worst. _

* * *

The room suffocated with smoke. In the middle was a poker table seated with four mafiosi, all in suits and smoking cigars. Hernandez had to limp into the room due to his heavily bandaged foot and lack of crutch, as no one had the money for one.

"Look who it is, the idiot waiter," a man in a suit and slicked back hair laughed at seeing Hernandez for a second time. Twenty dollar bills were sticking out of his pocket, identifying him as Benny. When Desmond stepped into the room, Benny pointed at him with a cigar, shaking even harder in cackles. "And he brought back up!" Desmond ignored the mafioso and helped Hernandez get to the wet bar to prepare snacks for the mafiosi. Once Desmond had poured the mafiosi drinks from the only bottle at the wet bar, Hernandez limped over to serve the snacks the mafiosi had ordered last time.

"Are you going to get me salted peanuts, or the unsalted ones you got me last time?" Benny put his face in Hernandez's space when Hernandez was nearby, making it hard to ignore the mafioso. Benny laughed at what he was doing to the Hispanic, and he flicked ash from his cigar at Hernandez's face.

Hernandez flinched, but otherwise forced out an unaffected exterior, snubbing Benny. The mafiosi picked on Hernandez for his flinch anyway, amusing themselves with the waiter as one would by shaking an ant farm and watching the small bodies inside struggle, or as one would by dangling a spider on a stick over water and slowly submerging the stick until finally letting go. They just wanted to see smaller creatures squirm.

As Desmond prepared to refill the men's glasses, he watched Hernandez try to man it out and ignore the bullying. The best — and the worst — way to destroy a man was to destroy his pride, his sense of manhood. If Hernandez showed any form of complaint at the mafiosi's treatment of him, it would only prove to the mafiosi that Hernandez was a weaker, insignificant being than them, just as they expected. Hernandez did not want to satisfy them by proving them right. Desmond didn't agree with Hernandez setting himself up by snubbing the mafiosi, so he was surprised his co-worker stuck with it the entirety of serving the snacks.

Until Hernandez, after finally being able to limp away from the table to the wet bar, met Benny's eyes and smiled to make his next words seem less purposefully mean than they were. "Yeah, well, go screw yourself." Benny burst into cackles. "Look at this guy! I shoot him in the foot and he tells me to go screw myself!" "Are you just going to take that, Benny?" one of the mafiosi goaded, and the three of them joined Benny in less explosive laughter.

They kept looking at each other, laughing, and Desmond kept an eye on them as Hernandez walked past Desmond for the bar, but their expression of their — while wrong — amusement was harmless. Desmond turned around to follow Hernandez to the wet bar.

Call it intuition — be it genetic, or earned from the experience of exposure to street crime and Assassins — but Desmond sensed more than predicted Benny taking out a gun. Desmond turned his head to look at Benny, but the bullet was faster, and Desmond was only distantly aware of the warmth that splattered on his neck and cheek and of Hernandez collapsing behind him.

_His neck…. _Benny was laughing; the other mafiosi were complaining, saying that they weren't going to help Benny dump the body out because they didn't feel like taking out the trash that day. _His neck was wet…._ Benny was still firing bullets without looking; they were wild and not aimed anywhere particular — it was just horrid luck that the first one had hit Hernandez. _Blood…._ Benny's cackling was louder than the bullets. Desmond's neck was wet with Hernandez's blood.

_His neck…._

_Blood…._

Desmond's mind went blank.

The mafiosi at the table jumped when Benny's laughter cut into a scream. Benny cradled his hand, which had a kitchen knife thrown through it, as his gun clattered to the ground. It seemed to be only another blink for the mafiosi until they saw the bartender taking out the knife from Benny's hand and moving to shove it through his throat.

Minds catching up to what they were seeing, the mafiosi stood up from their chairs, and two of them were on Desmond in an instant. The brunette changed the course of his knife and pinned Benny's arm on the table via sleeve, before quickly turning to punch the two mafiosi in the stomach before they could swing at him. They hunched over on the floor. Desmond coldly, uncaringly, moved past them. There was nothing in his eyes. Only death.

The last mafioso fired at Desmond, but the brunette tilted his head back just in time for the bullet to harmlessly fly past him. Blood was still rushing in Desmond's ears and invigorating him like a wild animal, and, angered as an animal was when denied of its prey, Desmond and the gunman engaged in brief combat before Desmond twisted the gunman's arm back, shot Benny in the foot, and slammed the gunman's head into the corner of the table, killing him. Meanwhile, the two mafiosi from the floor had recovered and gotten their guns out, and they then intercepted Desmond from finishing his business with Benny. Desmond grabbed their wrists, broke them, and struck their throats. They slumped to the floor, dead as well. Desmond removed the knife from Benny's sleeve, and the mafioso fell off his chair onto the floor in a desperate attempt to get away from Desmond before the bartender could kill him with the knife.

"What Family are you from!?" Benny demanded.

Desmond's head turned a few degrees to Benny, like a bird picking up the location of prey from their sound. His gaze was the unreadable, cold one of a predator killing everything in sight simply as he was designed to. He took a step forward, and Benny scrambled to get up and run, but his injured foot hindered him from standing. Something was magnifying Benny's heartbeat and squeezing his lungs, and even if he didn't recognise what it was or was refusing to acknowledge it, the force weighed heavily on his chest — the presence of fear.

"Dev…stop it!"

The new voice startled the other two living people in the room, and Benny and Desmond looked at Hernandez, who was nursing his collarbone. Blood stained his shirt and was already drying on his skin, but he still had a chance to live before blood loss got to him.

The waterfall sound of blood rushing to the head suddenly disappeared from Desmond's hearing, and he dazedly dropped the knife on the floor, where it vibrated in place handle-up. Desmond rushed to Hernandez's side and robotically helped him stem the bleeding, located the Hispanic's cellphone, and dialled the boss's number. After Hernandez was as comfortable as he could get, Desmond stood up and stared at Benny.

Benny didn't know what to make of the bartender who had fought like a wild animal and then suddenly moved around like a zombie. When the brunette's eyes landed on Benny, the mafioso was suddenly very aware of the knife that he couldn't hold properly, but that the bartender could. When said bartender slowly walked over, Benny's eyes jumped between his assailant and the knife.

* * *

Worry consumed Lippi as he followed the manager bartender of Bad Weather to where the old man had gotten a call earlier from Devon briefly explaining what had recently transpired during serving mafiosi of the Ré Family. Lippi and the fellow Family members he was with at the time Bad Weather's employees had burst into panic were running after a few of the employees led by their head bartender, who was quite speedy despite his old age.

At the destination, the employees of Bad Weather were quick to attend to their Hispanic coworker bleeding on the floor and nearly unconscious. Outside the room, a few of Lippi's Family members were getting what they could about what had happened from the Ré's Benny while they tended to his wounds as "mafia bystander courtesy." Apparently, Benny was thrown out of the room and dumped on the street like trash by a certain bartender after being stabbed in the hand and shot in the foot. Curiously, the Hispanic waiter sported a similar, if older, foot injury.

With no Devon in sight, Lippi ordered his fellow Family members who were interrogating Benny to watch out for the safety of Bad Weather's employees, before signalling the rest to follow him in a search for Devon. Lippi and his Family members split up and searched the streets for the vanished bartender, and fifteen minutes later found Lippi spotting a familiar brunette sitting hunched against a wall in an alley while dazedly staring at his hands. Lippi rushed over to Devon.

"No." Devon's voice was flat, almost automatic in its response to another human presence. "Go away." The bartender didn't even seem aware his mouth was moving. Lippi stubbornly ignored his friend's words; he crouched on the ground and put a hand on Devon's back in comfort. "What's wrong, Baby?" he asked, until he noticed Devon's bloody hands.

"Come on," Lippi rubbed Devon's shoulders before trying to get him up, "let's get you cleaned up."

At a hideout belonging to Lippi's Family, Lippi guided Devon to a sink as the members who were with Lippi on the search for Devon earlier went about setting things up for use. Lippi turned on the water at the sink and set Devon to stand there with his hands under the water as Lippi searched for a bar of soap. When Lippi returned, Devon had not moved at all and was still staring at nothing. It was when Lippi tried soaping Devon's hands that the mafioso flinched and realised that the water was boiling hot.

After scrubbing Devon's hands clean with cooler water and drying them up, Lippi guided Devon to a chair at a table and sat down with him. "Is there anything you want to drink, Baby?" When Devon didn't respond, Lippi's brows furrowed in concern. He gestured to one of the mafiosi behind him. "Johnnie Walker, Black Label, three ice cubes," Lippi ordered. When one of the suited man left to get the drink, Devon seemed to be partly shaken out of his shock, and he slowly looked at Lippi.

"You—" Devon cleared his throat after not speaking for a long time, "You're—" "Shhh, rest your throat, Baby," Lippi coaxed. Devon ignored the request.

"You're a mafia boss," Devon realised.

The suited man returned with the drink, and Lippi put it in Devon's hands. "Drink up, Baby. You're still in a little shock." The glass didn't move. Lippi sighed. "I am," he confirmed, "of the Lippi Family. Now please, drink; the strong whiskey should warm you up."

Devon sipped once, twice, before looking at Lippi in gratitude for everything Lippi had done for him. It was the quick gaze of a young animal that had unexpectedly bitten a batch-mate into bleeding a little and now wanted to explain itself and apologise, but didn't know how to say it. Desmond was by no means a young animal to Lippi, but…well. Lippi understood the silent gesture and patted Devon's back.

"That was the first time I've killed anyone."

Lippi nodded — he had figured. "Do you need company right now, or should I walk you home…?" "No," Devon stopped him before he could finish listing for requests. The brunette stood up and moved to leave cash, but Lippi gave a sharp look and stubbornly shoved the bills back in Devon's hands.

Devon gave Lippi his own look, but it was weak from recent shock, and he sighed. "I'm walking home. I'll be fine." Devon _did_ walk very composed and ready for anything for someone who had been and probably still was in shock — his hands hadn't even trembled or shaken for a second since the moment Lippi had found him sitting almost curled up in a ball in an alley.

"I'm walking you home," Lippi insisted. Devon hesitated, the first sign of him purposefully analysing or thinking about something since having been found in shock at a first kill. Or kills. Lippi made sure his stubbornness reflected on his face, and Devon gave a tired sigh.

Lippi _did_ walk Devon home, though two mafiosi of the Lippi Family accompanied them as it was tradition for a mafia boss to never be out during the night without at least one member of his Family to watch his back. When the group arrived at a cheap-looking apartment building, Devon stubbornly refused company to his floor, and Lippi could only concernedly watch the bartender enter the building as one would watch one's child or younger sibling before leaving them at home alone.

* * *

A/N: The line, "Look at this guy! I shoot him in the foot and he tells me to go screw myself!" was inspired by a mafia movie, though I forget which. I give credit to the unnamed movie, if that means anything…. ;^^


	6. Chapter 5

The following morning found Lippi standing outside Devon's apartment building, waiting for a certain brunette to leave. Lippi understood the turbulent emotions that came with a first kill — having been through them himself, as he _was_ a mafia boss — and that some people dealt with it better than others. While he called Devon a Baby, he didn't believe Devon was one.

This was only confirmed when, after minutes of not seeing his bar buddy come out, Lippi walked around to the back of the building, where Devon was sitting on a rail of the fire escape, high enough for the upper level winds to hit him and ruffle his clothes like several hands weakly trying to shake the clothes off of him. This was the first time Lippi had seen his friend in a white hoodie and jeans — or anything not a bartender uniform, truthfully.

"Baby!" Lippi shouted up to his friend. "Come and have a drink with me!" Devon looked down and spotted the wild-haired figure that was Lippi below him. "No thanks, I'm comfortable up here!" he shouted back. "Seven stories high?" Lippi yelled in disbelief.

Devon just laughed; he seemed to have gotten over his first kills already, as Lippi expected. He watched as Devon finally slipped off the rail and headed into the bartender's apartment, and Lippi grinned like a kid given back his playmate and walked back to the front of the building.

* * *

Desmond satisfied Lippi's desire to have fun by knocking back several drinks at clubs with the mafia don that morning in return for what Lippi had done for him. They parted ways when work called Lippi, and by the time Desmond stepped into Bad Weather, he had calmed down from the shock of the previous night's events and the craziness of the clubs he and Lippi had went to.

It wasn't time for work yet, but Mary was there with all of Bad Weather's employees — though the night shift workers weren't in uniform, Mary included. She was worriedly talking with Hall, and when the old man spotted Desmond, her speech became more rapid, and she tried to stop Hall, but the boss was coming over to Desmond anyway. Desmond realised the senior employee was angry at him.

"I tell you not to cause any trouble, and you end up beating up men — most to death — from the Ré Family, and throwing the last living one out on the street!" Hall did not even greet Desmond, getting straight to the point. Desmond met Hall's eyes evenly, taking the boss seriously just as Hall was taking Desmond seriously. "I understand if you want to fire me, boss." "_Fire you?_" Hall's volume rose, and Mary's voice came in like dew soaking into one's clothes, cool and calming, but the boss's crackling, fiery inflection broke through. "I want you to pay me cash for the damages those thugs are going to inflict on my bar after the stunt you pulled! They might even kill some of my employees!"

The _official_ owner of Bad Weather was a petite young widow who had inherited the bar from her late husband. With no family, children, or connections, the bar was mostly run by the manager bartender, Hall, who was respected as the most senior worker of Bad Weather, and who ran the bar as if it was his own baby. The widow was perfectly fine with it, as she didn't care much for the bar; she came to Bad Weather maybe three times a year. Desmond was lucky she was there to accept him as a bartender after a charming smile and the serving of a Shirley Templar.

"I don't want that to happen," Desmond honestly replied. "Then you should have thought ahead before swinging your fists!" Hall shook a finger, his face turning pink. Mary put her hands on his shoulders. "He _did_ save Hernandez's life, boss." "He wrapped towels on Hernandez's bullet wound, I know," Hall acknowledged, and then, to Desmond, "—but that's all you had to do! Not go gung-ho on mafi— oh…." Employees began worriedly crowding around Hall the instant the old man grabbed Desmond's hoodie to help himself to the floor with a startled face.

"Boss?" "He's having a heart attack!" "Lay him down, call 911!"

Desmond watched, his lips thinning. "We're closing down the bar," he declared. The others expressed alarm. "Dev, many of us rely on the bar for jobs," they discouraged. Desmond squarely met their gazes. "Better jobless than dead." No one could argue with that.

Hall was brought to the hospital, and without their manager bartender, Bad Weather's employees were forced to apologise to their customers and close the bar; Mary tried consoling Desmond in that he shouldn't feel guilty for the bar shutting down, and that it was the mafiosi's faults for shooting Hernandez.

"Bad Weather won't be closed for more than a few days," Desmond whispered to her, determined. "I'll try to make it so. I _do_ care for everyone." Mary gave a small smile at that. "We all know that, Dev; in fact, we worry about _you_ often, and about _your_ safety. You're like the protective big brother of the Bad Weather family we have to worry about — what's wrong?" An expression had briefly flashed across Desmond's face at Mary's second sentence, and she wasn't sure what to interpret from it; she thought she caught a whiff of negative emotions from the expression: hurt, longing, frustration…. Desmond looked away.

"Please don't call me that," he could barely get out in an even voice. Mary stared at the side and back of his head — all of what she could see from him with his face tucked aside. "What, 'protective big brother?'" "Brother," Desmond corrected. Mary was sensing history behind her co-worker's reaction, but she didn't push for it. "Where is the hospital Hernandez is at?" Desmond asked, his previously tight voice now gradually easing up.

Mary gave Desmond the address and the room; the young man nodded, and, after a second, was able to meet Mary's eyes and thank her. "Keep me posted on the boss's condition," Desmond told her after putting his number in her cellphone, and he then left the bar for the hospital Hernandez was at. Mary stared after him with concerned eyes.

* * *

Hernandez nearly shrieked when he glanced at the window and looked back at the door to see his nurse replaced by his co-worker. "Dev!" he greeted, but his injuries and bandages forced him to keep his volume lower than he wanted. Devon grinned, amusement sparkling in his eyes at the scare he gave Hernandez. The Hispanic wondered how Devon picked it up.

Wishing to ask a vitally important question before Devon's boyish character made him relax and forget, Hernandez's happy air vanished under his seriousness. "Dev, you've got to tell me: where are you from?" Devon took a step back, alarmed. "What's with the sudden interest in my background?" Hernandez felt himself tense. "It's only because you're my friend I'm telling you this, but word on the street is that you're a mercenary."

"_What!_"

Hernandez relaxed back into his pillow. "From your reaction, you're not." Inwardly, he sighed in relief. Devon shook his head, lost and confused on what to make of the rumour. "Hernandez, those were my first kills," he said. Hernandez quieted, looking at his coworker. "Dev, you didn't have to do that for me." "That's just it," Devon laughed hollowly, "I didn't do it for you. Or even to serve the light."

"Dev?"

"I did it for me, to save my neck. I wanted to kill them. I felt threatened."

"That's just called self-defence," Hernandez assured, lost on how a combat capable individual like Devon was feeling. He'd have to ask the other Bad Weather employees. Hernandez wanted to console Devon somehow, but Devon's all-seeing, bartender eyes wouldn't disclose what was slowly eating him from the inside out. Mary secretly told Hernandez that she suspected that their friend didn't even know himself.

"Have you seen the boss? I heard he got a heart attack." "I haven't checked up on him, but most likely he'll jump back up soon. You know how he is — the older the tree, the tougher the trunk." Hernandez laughed, admiring how the atmosphere brightened so quickly. Devon chuckled with him and patted Hernandez's leg in farewell.

"Take care of yourself, Dev," Hernandez blurted out before he could think about it as Devon moved to leave. "I'd hate to see you get in trouble with the mafia _and_ the government somehow, being the troublemaker you are. Don't make me worry, yeah?" It was meant to sound humorous, but Devon looked at him, and Hernandez felt his heart stop in one, panicky moment where he thought his coworker _knew_. But then Devon smiled as he always did and nodded, and Hernandez watched him leave.

He clenched his sheets in worry.

* * *

"You! Dove!"

Desmond reflexively looked back as he walked down the hospital halls because Dove sounded a lot like Dev, and he found himself unmistaken when he saw who had addressed him. Desmond entered Benny's hospital room, brow raised at what the Ré mafioso would try to do or promise. He made sure to close the door behind him.

One leg of Benny's was in a cast and suspended from a contraption connected to the ceiling; the other was under a blanket, but the size of Benny's foot told Desmond that it was heavily bandaged. Desmond glanced at it in pride, recognising it as the one he had shot and had subsequently given Benny an injury that matched Hernandez's. When Desmond got to Benny's side, the mafioso spat at him, and Desmond flinched and wiped the saliva off of his face. In his preoccupied moment, Benny drew out a pocket knife, and Desmond was able to jump back soon enough so that only his hoodie received a clean tear at the front.

Anger snapped within him like a rubber band, and in one quick movement, the knife clattered to the ground, and Benny's wrist was gripped tight in warning. Benny was already starting to foam at the mouth in his anger at Desmond, to which Desmond glared back with his blood boiling beneath the surface and his tensed muscles waiting for another attack.

"You never learn, do you?" Desmond hissed, and Benny angrily clawed at his face with a bandaged hand; Desmond recognised it as the one he had thrown a kitchen knife in. He slapped the hand away with enough force to make it hurt. "You're lucky it wasn't made men you killed that night," Benny spat, "or you would have declared war on the most powerful mafia _famiglia_ of the city!"

The bandaged hand tore at the skin of Desmond's hand to free his wrist from the ex-Assassin's grip. Desmond ignored it and snapped Benny's wrist. It was quiet, with only a muffled _crack_ and a hiss from Benny — a clean break. Desmond leaned in.

"I don't _care_ if you're of the Ré Family," Desmond murmured furiously, the rumbles of a growl bubbling in his low notes. "Shoot one of us, or so much as _breathe_ on my neck, and Bad Weather will be the last 'family' you'll know of."

Desmond straightened up, let go of Benny's broken wrist, and, on his way out of the room, slapped the mafioso's bandaged foot to remind Benny of the bullet he had put in it. He shut the door quietly but quickly so that only a few seconds of Benny's obscenity-filled raging after him managed to escape the room into the hall. A few curious people turned to the source of the noise, and Desmond smoothly pulled up his hood to hide his face. He disappeared into the bodies that walked down the hospital halls.

* * *

_Before New York, a girl could ask, "So where are you from?" and my response was always the same: my parents were conspiracy freaks — they lived off the grid in the woods. A bartender I once worked with explained for me sometimes, said that I was "raised in a cult or something like that. You know, out west!" The girls would usually, awkwardly, back off from me after he'd say that. Who would want to date a weirdo? _

_I laughed at my past. I laughed at my family. Joked about everything, even the end of the_ _world. _

* * *

A/N: I tried breaking up the paragraphs so that they're easier to read, as requested by a reader. Let me know if any of you want longer paragraphs instead.


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